Friday, November 5, 2010

Five More Questions for My Children

I have a few more questions for my beloved, wonderful children. I love them so much but sometimes they really, really confuse me and make my brain hurt.

The Royal Flush
It’s not hard to flush. What happens in your brains from the age of two to the age of five? One moment you’re little and you stand next to the toilet flushing the thing again and again and again, often with totally inappropriate things in it. Like Legos or daddy’s cellphone. You flush that potty like it’s your damn job. The next minute you're a big kid and you take a pooper that rivals something a longshoreman could produce after eating at Golden Corral. And you just leave it there. Why? Are you proud of it? Do you want a gold star for it? Or are you suddenly allergic to the toilet handle? Why do you act like a couple of unimpressed German teenagers: “Yawn. I am so over flushing the potty.”

The Toys in the Hall

Why is it that the only toys that end up in the hallway outside your bedroom are ones that seem placed there to cause me serious physical injury? When I discover their presence at 3 am in the dark, a matchbox car or Barbie shoe either punctures my foot or leads to the type of fall where I end up with a broken hip and one of those Medic-Alert necklaces that allows seniors to live independently. The most recent culprit was from a Happy Meal. It was a miniature Star Wars skateboard. My kids (and every other kid I know) thought they were coolest things ever. I have no idea why. I think they may have been designed by Ronald McDonald and Al Qaeda because they’re clearly meant for one purpose and that’s to kill parents who accidentally step on them in the dark.

Your Big Kid Bed

What happens to your sheets while you sleep? You are tucked into a neat and tidy bed every night. When I check on you in the morning, it looks like an alligator has gotten in there and spun a thousand death rolls with your sheets and blankets. The fitted sheet has popped off all the corners. The stuffed animals are thrown around the room. The blankets are wadded up in the corner. Whuck happens to you?

The Pitter Patter of Your Feet

Why is that all kids’ feet seem to come in only two varieties: freezing cold or damp 'n' clammy? It’s like your feet either come from the ice box or Gollum’s cave. When my son’s feet hit any surface, they make a clammy sound like SLAPPY SLAPPY SLAPPY. When he puts his feet on me (which he does all the time -- I have no idea why) I am scared they’re going to stick to me and need to be peeled off like uncooked bacon.

Toothpaste is For Teeth, Right?
Why does toothpaste seem to get the best of you every single time? Is toothpaste your nemesis? Why does it end up everywhere except the one place that it’s supposed to be? In the past week, I have found toothpaste smeared on my refrigerator, in streaks on my sofa’s throw pillow, in your hair, on my shoulder and all over one of my potholders. I’m not a forensics expert or anything, but I wonder why something like toothpaste is such a ubiquitous, sticky, minty fresh presence in our home? And why is it never, ever found on your toothbrushes or teeth?